4 / 30 : seasons [run this town].

oh boy.....

seasons

daddy

im sure the creole slipped off of your tongue

as you peered from your rooftop in roselawn

to see the scoreboard at riverbend stadium

you heard the crowd go wild and you yelled

geaux bengals

and hooted loudly until

your mother told you it was time for dinner

you dreamed of being bigger than big

you wanted to call the plays on the turf

you needed to run this town

that had birthed you as your haitian heritage

got lost in between one of cincinnati's seven hills

and you dreamed a dream as american as skyline chili

thirty years later

many seasons have gone by and you have coached

in every major arena under the sun but you always

wanted to go back to the five one three

and be the hometown hero you never

wanted to forget that you were spoon fed stoop dreams

remembered legendary passes from your rooftop

its october and seasons change as they always do

the fall always makes me think of you

as you suit up in whatever color is appropriate

for the city we are living in for the year

for the month

for the moment

but i knew as soon as you put on a cap

colored orange and black you felt like

you had come full circle

at home games when i'm in town when our team touches down

you'll look up at the stands and point at me

always

and when you're away in seattle

atlanta

new york

chicago

and we make a big play i know you're doing the same

i called you today after we won and you were

crying

we hadn't been number 1 since 1988 before

i could walk and before michael was born

a different season in your life when you could only dream

that you'd be on the team

roster

daddy

i'll never understand the man

behind smile and the ray bans but

as the seasons change

as they always do

i'll be in the stands

every chance i can

cheering for you

9 / 30 : letter from a doctor.

this is another part of me that i don't really discuss even with my closest friends.

i really don't give a fuck if it's the shittiest poem i have ever written in my entire life. 

and i've been sweating bullets and putting off writing even a semblance of what has been some of my most trying times for years so. this first step hopefully, will be the first of many.

letter from a doctor

dear ashley,

i'll never forget the first time we met.

you came into my office

with a cheerleading bag and pon poms shrugged

over your shoulder. mascara cast shadows

down your face. you looked around my room

carefully before you sat down. you said

with the confidence each seventeen-year-old

is assured that they have:

"there better not be any damn cameras in here"

as you crossed your legs and twitched

your face in disgust.

i assured you there were not.

"good. because i'm not fucking crazy. 

let's get this over with"

you snapped.

you dictated the our first session.

asked me more questions about the validity

of my degrees than my professors ever did.

but

anytime i mentioned the word

anxiety 

you would pull back from me like i had

slapped you across the mouth

wounded and vulnerable

embarrassed

"i don't have anxiety" you 

snapped. "i just happened to be

stressed out. i have an AP english test tomorrow

and unless you know shit about hemingway

i've go to go"

and you left. i hoped that you were one of those

who really meant what they said

that you didn't need the help

a stranger like me to talk to

and would never have to return but

the next day

your mother called and told me that 

you drove to the school parking lot 

like im sure you did any other day but you

were shrieking

immobilized 

swearing to God that you

were losing your mind that you

were about to die 

and if she didn't kill you

you would pull the trigger yourself

you passed out from exhaustion 

on your steering wheel and i 

steered your mother away from her own

personal breaking point 

"what had happened

to my perfect daughter" she asked as she

gasped for air. "when and why

did she become so scared 

to breathe"

i couldn't answer her. i held the phone like 

a lifeline.

it took you months of sessions

to finally lay back in my chair you were

too scared to relax 

but when you finally did that day in 

january you started to sob

it was the first time you had lain anywhere

in three months 

you told me you'd been sleeping in a fetal position

in your bed against the wall 

you'd wake up stiff and broken like

your spirit

you had a billion concerns

wrapped up in your small frame

"i'm going to have to go to community college"

you declared. "there is no way i will make it

alone. i'll be here forever and be a drain to my 

parents and i'll die a complete loser"

i told you to think rationally.

you told me you were.

after we had finally started making progress

your mother called and told me that 

your friend had passed away, unexpectedly 

i told her to keep a close eye on you

and to be there if you wanted to talk

but instead you tried to follow the leader

dance in her footsteps that lead straight

to heaven 

i never make house calls but your mother pleaded

it was 1 am on a monday night

i drove the 15 minutes between point a and b like 

a bat out of hell

you were hanging like a broken ornament

on the overpass to I 75 

with your family huddled by the forest

heralding me with songs of horror and grief

too scared to get close to your nearly lifeless body

too scared to leave you to plunge into oblivion

they teach you in textbooks

how to host an intervention

it usually involves a well lit room,

tea, 

comfy couches,

and caring individuals in on the secret.

they don't prepare you for 

coaxing an upper middle class black girl

with so much promise

with everything in the world 

in her grasp 

down from the ledge

i couldn't let you be a hood ornament

for an unsuspecting driver

i couldn't let your mother and father down 

who put 18 years of their heart and soul

into to their "perfect little girl"

who simply could not take the pressure

of being perfect anymore

i couldn't let you leave that way

body flung downward

soul flying upwards

they didn't teach me in my doctorate

but i'm sure you don't

get to heaven that way

i don't remember how we got you

back on solid ground. and i don't

remember what i said. and i don't

think any of my formal training was

put to use that night. i just remember

the next day you and your mother

sat in my office 

both wearing pearls and polos and pencil skirts

as if the night before hadn't happened

but i couldn't pretend

i told you that maybe you need to go somewhere

and get the help i couldn't offer

you looked to your mother who sat stoic

silent tears swam onto her blouse

you looked back at me and asked

with the most desolate face

i had ever seen

"will God forgive me because

I thought 

He was letting me 

drown"

for the rest of my life, ashley,

i will never forget that moment

when i set my profession

my degrees

and my title aside

the three of us sat and cried

grabbed hands and

prayed

-----------------------------------------

A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But He was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke Him up and said to Him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

Mark 4:37-40

17 / 30 : siren.

edit: i wrote this from the hospital waiting room via my blackberry. i couldn't line skip or anything and i like it better in it's original form. these are my thoughts and they were strung together and flying through my head. so here it is.

siren

I didn't expect to spend my friday night suffocating in the sterile silence of the hospital waiting room. And the ride over here in the front seat watching his breathe struggle to fill an oxygen tank had me in tears. This is my brother. This is my blood. And I'd do anything to help him. And when I heard the sirens blare I heaved a sigh relief and we rode together. I looked back and he was still there. I'm in the hospital waiting room surrounded by people bleeding and broken and all I want to do is burst through the triage door and have someone reassure me that he is going to be okay. But the way he looked tonight. I thought he was going to die. I thought he was going to die and it was the scariest thought I ever had. With the music from the Paper Trail CD being performed as the soundtrack of our ambulance ride, I'm not even mad about missing the concert. TI can wait another day.

14 / 30 : mommy.

today was a good day.

nate marshall: here.

30 30 cypher: here.

mommy

i look pretty much

like my mother

and act like my mother

even though for years

i swear that 

i'd never be want to be

anything like her

but im older now

and if  i ever grew up

to be half the woman

that my mother is

i'd drop to my knees

and thank the Lord

my brother and me.

the blood in our veins are from
two sets of people who have never
met but he is my brother as much
as the grass is green and the sky
is blue and the sun rises in the east
and sets in the west.

and lately our bond has gotten us
into trouble, sitting in chairs waiting
for the man to beat us down until
chocolate colored pulp but
we beat the case because its not
in our DNA to lose. it's true.


and as much as i enjoy playing him
teasing him and sometimes straight up
disrespecting him no one
no one can do that but me because
that's my little brother.

cause when his swag is off i'll let him know
and when he's being wack i'll tell him and
if the outfit is poppin i'll give him props but
if the gear is wack i'll tell him that too and
i expect the same from him even when
i dont want to hear it but we're family so
we say whatever we feel.

and late at night its nothing for me
to sit on his bed, mean comfortable and chill
or him to be in my room with his pajamas on
because we talk about what's good
what's not
and what we can do to make this better and
even if it's at 7 am he calls me about some bullshit
or if i'm calling him 9 am the morning after a party
it's cool.

and i dont think we particularly
look alike or sound the same but
anyone who knows us knows that
we're not just cool
we're family

cincin[nasti].

8 hours on greyhound hell
from one city with a funny sounding c name
to another
speeding down the highway, i'm alone.
going home.

homeward bound to the home i've been
denying they ask me
where i'm from and i say that city in
the midwest where we still
riot in the 21st century
there are a thousand recipes for chili
and jerry springer is our native son.

and 7 hours in i wonder
why i am even going home at all
until we turn the bend in
northern kentucky that i've always considered
to be the most beautiful view and
there's my city at night
glistening gleaming
absolutely stunning
sitting silently,
welcoming its prodigal daughter home.

and i hop off the bus and
fall into my mother's arms and
drive the route back home and
get bowled over by my dog's love and
get kissed on the forehead by daddy and
get put in a full nelson by my little brother and
it's then i know
that no matter how hard i try
or how far i will go i can never
truly distance myself
from home.